Locks Cut Poem by Jonathan ROBIN

A snip first here then there, O what distress!
New shorn, life's locks no longer mask years' grey,
Now evident it seems that she must pay
In white Time's ransom where once shone jet tress!
Each single hair is mourned, all can confess
Sharp pangs, where one stray fingers used to play
Little remains. 'Twill grow again! ' she'll say:
O ever on must one mistrust missed tress!
Cascading braids that garland fair mistress
Kindle lustful longings night and day.
Sweet locks cropped, lopped, lip-service lead astray
Creates a void avoidable, few bless.
Uncut is Cupid's knot, bow, arrow shorn,
Time flees, betrayal mortal men must mourn.